


World's Strictest Parents

by Sexsuna



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Confinement, Crossdressing, Deepthroating, Double Anal Penetration, Elderly Care, Fellatio, Gags, Gay Bashing, Gay Sex, Gerontophilia, Homophobia, Homosexuality, Latex, M/M, Multi, Prostitution, Punishment, Religious America, Religious nutters, Sexual Slavery, Torture, Transvestite, cocksucking, mysophilia, transvestism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 06:24:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3518735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sexsuna/pseuds/Sexsuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sayo has been sent away by his father to cure his passion for homosex and crossdressing, to a religious household, which welcomes him with open arms - of a sort - and the world of sickening hidden perversions that wallow just under the neat surface of the Astroturf gardens and compulsively cleaned and ordered interiors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“There it is,” said the driver casually, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, that abomination which became visible as the wind wafted the low shrubbery of the embankment aside and revealed a tasteless grey-tiled roof group of squat two-storey detached homes; their windows large and airy and their facades tacky imitated stone that even in the shadow-thick early afternoon light glistened incongruously, giving the horrific place an heavy air of tastelessly cheap garish artifice. There were a lot of them, but from the road embankment not much was visible. The driver signalled and they turned, one step on the way down to that place, which seemed then and there to Sayo like a giant maelstrom that churned the waters down, and if the limousine he was in was a ship, he was heading to certain doom. He was sure he was, either way, but what could he do? He couldn’t rightly get out of the vehicle right then and there, in this foreign city, on the road in a suburban hell whose skies were yellow with exhaust.

They rounded a corner and his hands got sweaty with nervous anticipation, or dread. _What was really the difference between those anyway?_ he thought to himself. The black limousine whose passenger seat windows were tinted, a vehicle of the sort a celebrity is expected to travel in, drove on and slowed, stopping at a road barrier painted emergency red and white. A man wearing a private security contractor’s uniform, a sordid affair imitating police customs for that extra touch of authority, came out of a guard’s box positioned in the middle of the road. He exchanged a few words Sayo could not hear with the driver, and retreated; and the barrier was lifted.

The front gardens of the houses were so green it hurt his eyes to see. It seemed to glow like radioactive waste, a sick green unnatural hue; his mind filled with thoughts of alien grass taking over the world, crawling over the buildings of a long-departed mankind; _and the detached homes of this gated estate_ , his thoughts raced on, _would be the perfect first victim to such a green grassy plague._ The homes were large, ridiculously so, and the street-fronting facades had pompous wooden doors with one or two redundant stone-steps, and concrete paved driveways of two motorcar’s width before an enormous garage port, one of which stood open; inside, hanging from the ceiling and arrangements on a wall were frightening gardening tools which became, in Sayo’s mind the obnoxious teeth of some disordered nameless beast. He shifted uncomfortably on his seat, toying with the multi-layered frills on his pink and white skirt, until the vehicle went around a sharp bend and the final destination came into view.

A group of people stood on the front driveway. A row of three lower heads, and behind and centred was two others; a short woman with long hair that seemed dirty and shone greasily in the afternoon light, and a tall man in light blue shirt, looking formal, with big thick-framed spectacles and well-ironed jeans, tightened below the slight beer-belly with a black belt, having at the buckles a Texas lone-star symbol. The horror was exactly as Sayo expected; a upper-class gated-community group of lunatic Christians, the American Taliban in all their might; their faceless children like drab slates into which was drilled the merit of _Civilisation_ and the _Laws Upon Which It Rested_ ; the children kept absolutely still. They must have been trained well, Sayo thought; or rather, drilled like soldiers awaiting war. The holy war, or Armageddon, or both. The limousine drove up towards the curb, stopped and cut the engine. His hands were sweaty. He reached for his pink lacquer handbag which rested between his legs, took it and got out of the vehicle, swung around, and they came again into view. The tall man’s eyes glowed with determination; the children and the wife, their eyes looked confused and unsure. Maybe it was because their patriarch had yet not given a decree on how they ought to react, and now they were thrown aimlessly from side to side on the algae-covered rocks like kelp washed up by the waves.

The sharp eyes of the man were focused on Sayo, unpleasantly. His mouth was open just a little bit, revealing within rows of thin teeth in even lines, discoloured by years of coffee-abuse. His eyes were the colour of glacial spring water...

The man saw Sayo’s hot-pink hair, tied up in two voluminous bunches, and in behind the oblique fringe, a light pink and white-frilled headdress; a short metal fragment, like the protruding part of a thin arrow, through his full lower left lip; and he saw Sayo’s elaborate dress; a fluffy airy affair in light-pink and white with an accent here and there in red; the long arms terminating in some cloud-pattern lace-frills; there was a high collar with similar frills that hugged his lower neck. Around his waist the dress was hidden by a shiny light-pink PVC corset, tied at the front with red lacing, and below this widened out a two-layered wavy skirt, one pink and one white, each with the inverted colours for the lace accent. Below this were offered a brief glimpse of his bare upper legs, hairless and pale, before, just over his knees, began some plain white stockings ending in a pair of low white patent leather boots with very high chunky heels and a high platform.

The man was a bit surprised, but definitely not as surprised as he ought to have been. Maybe, Sayo thought to himself, he had seen others before... Cross-dressers, transvestites; for being the sort of staunch conservative religious nutters unlikely to have favourable views upon such, their faces were ominously indifferent.

The limousine drove off, as if in a hurry to escape some war zone. The family stood lined up, perfectly, unflinching and unwavering. Sayo could not observe a single twitch.

“Welcome,” said the man. “I’m Michael Johnson, and this is my family.” He moved behind the woman and put a heavy hand on her shoulder; his voice felt insincere yet at the same time full of a madman’s conviction, in some odd interplay. “This is my wife, Becky, and...” He moved over to the three children, nestling himself in front of his wife, who backed without a sound to accommodate him. “Our children, Jonah, John and Jezebel.”

The children’s faces were vacuous like the interstellar aether, nothing moved, not even their mouths or their chests. Breaths as silently as possible. The two boys had their hair cut short, hair slightly frizzy, and the girl’s blonde strands flowed unhindered like a waterfall down her blouse. She was the youngest, maybe eight, Sayo guessed; the two boys were in the lower teens.

“As you know, you’ll be staying with us for a while,” Michael went on and turned towards the door, with a move of his hand he shooed his family to follow, like a trail of ants controlled by parasitic Cordyceps fungus, their brains gone, turned into vessels for the dispersal of the seed, “so follow us in and we’ll go over the rules of this household.”

 

At the oversized dining room table they sat down, the wife and the husband, and motioned with their hands for Sayo to sit down opposite them. The children walked away with steps cautious and full of dread. Dust was nowhere to be seen; the table glimmered in the light from the lamp above it, which looked like a tattered Jupiter. The floor carpets and the chrome of the kitchen equipment were all overly clean. Things were packed in order; magazines in neat piles, no stray toys anywhere; the endless wasted empty spaces so integral to typical suburban detached homes in the U.S. echoed as if this was just for show, a house furnished only for prospective buyers, fake and dishonest.

“In our house,” Michael began, “respect is crucial. Respect for us, as parents, as the natural authority. The way you dress... is provocative. Do you go to Church?”

“No,” replied Sayo.

Another expression of faux-surprise.

“Would you dress like that in Church?”

“Yes. Why not?”

The wife and husband looked at each other, exchanging a glance of blasé expectancy.

“Why do you think you are here?” the man finally said.

“Because of my father.”

“What is your relation with your father like?”

“Not good.”

“Why is it not good?”

“Because he doesn’t like the way I am.”

The man seemed to think for a while. “Family...” he began, paused, scratched the light-coloured stubble that was growing on his chin, and resumed. “Family is the most important thing in life. Without family, you have nothing. When your father tells you to do something, do you do it?”

“Depends,” Sayo replied. “If it’s complaining over how I look and dress, then no.”

“Family cannot function if there is not a hierarchy. This hierarchy comes from God, and it is upon this division of authority that all civilisation rest. If we had no discipline of this sort, we’d have nothing, there’d be chaos, _anarchy_. The world would crumble. A lot of social problems today are because parents are not asserting themselves. In this house, children do as they are told, and they are all the better for it. Every one of our children has chores assigned to them, because it is important that they never have free time to laze about and do nothing. They must work hard. And while you are here, you are expected to do so as well.”

“Wh—” Sayo tried to say something, but the man put up his hand, halting a further proclamation.

“No back-talking,” he said. “There will be no back-talking. We will not stand for that sort of attitude. You will be expected to find yourself immediately in the duties you will be assigned. Now, give me that handbag.”

“Why?” Sayo asked.

“I said: no back-talking.” His voice was still calm, no sign of irritation, maintaining the same monotonous intonation. “We need to see what you have in there. There’s no privacy in this house. We check everything our children do. Facebook activities, text messages – everything, we monitor.”

“You cannot be too cautious,” his wife interjected. Michael nodded.

Sayo pouted but reluctantly handed over his handbag. There was no point to argue about it, he reasoned, as surely that nutter of a man would just swipe it out of his hands if he resisted. The man would, however, not be pleased by what he was to find.

He unzipped it and reached into its dark depths. His hand probed, and brought back up a few items of make-up and a white mobile phone of an older flip-up variety – very out of style now.

“I’ll keep this,” he said, obviously meaning the phone. Then he continued rummaging through the content of the bag. Scattered notes on fragments of paper. The man paused as he reached further down, then a smile erupted suddenly across his face, like a sudden cracking of some volcanic fault zone.

Then he withdrew _it_ from that nameless abyss: ink-black shiny plastic, all six inches of it, the plug; and just after, the transparent half-empty bottle of lubrication gel. The smile on his face grew wider, and a psychotic fire burned in his eyes.

“Why did you bring this into my home?” he said. The smile was suddenly turned up-side down. A feigned frown. He was silent for a while, scratching anew the sparse stubble. “I’m... disappointed.” Not a hint of sincerity in his proclamation, but an excuse. “Why did you not tell us you had this with you? This is not a... approved equipment.”

“Anything to say to your defence?” the wife added. Sayo didn’t even remember her name, she was an un-character, an appendage of the husband, a mannequin through which he acted.

“I didn’t think you’d look through there.” He blushed faintly, just faintly, though it was not much visible behind the heavy make-up. The whole situation was silly more than it was embarrassing, and it was only with great effort he was able to resist bursting into hysterical laughter at the whole situation.

“Well,” Michael went on, an inkling of the previous satisfied smile reappearing, “you will have to face some punishment for this. There will be consequence to this sort of insolence. We just can’t let it slide. You must go to my study and get your due.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“You can try to run – but where to? You’re in an alien city, you don’t know anyone around here. This is _the sprawl_. It’s just endless detached houses and strip malls and car parks as far as the eye can see. You wouldn’t get far.”

Nevertheless, something very much like panic had set in for Sayo’s part, and he backed his chair away from the table, rose up and swung around. He saw then the two teenage boys, and in the middle, the young girl, standing like guards for each direction of escape. There was, a gap to the left and one to the right; and the one to the left was what he saw first, and this he headed for.

To run away from danger is of course a very primitive and basic instinct, so there was not much reason involved. It was consequently not a very considerable surprise to his rational mind when two muscular arms gripped him, one around his torso, the other across his chest, in an almost passionate embrace. Then, the man’s nasty breath on his face.

“Instincts...” he said, “they call you forth to do things, silly things, but you must control them, right? And here I am, in your face. You’re not going anywhere.” He turned to the children. “Bring the box.”

He was kept in the man’s tight warm embrace for what seemed like close to fifteen minutes, but could scarcely have been more than one, for the wife sat still at the table. She had not even gotten up. Her eyes were puddles of petroleum in a refinery tank.

Sayo struggled, but it was pointless. The man was far too large and strong for him to put up a fight. Something scraped against the floor somewhere close by, but Sayo could not see; all he could see was the man. The man seemed to relax his grip a little, and a finger traced across Sayo’s chin, almost sensually. The eyes were the same as ever, but the face full of evident happiness. Sayo tried to turn away, but there was no hope.

Something came up against his leg.

Then the grip tightened again. He wasn’t sure how it happened, but before he had finished the thought asking that, he lay in what looked like an average coffin with insides soft, padded and bed-like, and the lid came up from the side and closed him in. He shouted something, anything, but as the outlines of the last light evaporated from his retinas, it seemed no longer to matter. The darkness was all there was. He heard nothing else.

Alone with his thoughts, the world around him seemed to dissolve; the walls turning into infinite space. Planets spinning blindly on their axles, stars exploding, forming new from burning dust-clouds; glitter cast on black pavement. He seemed to move, for he bounced a few times against the soft covers. The coffin was too small to move around much in.


	2. Chapter 2

_This is it_ , he thought, _they will bury me alive_. Cold sweat broke out. What would his father think? Would he even care? Would he regret sending him off to this place, whatever it was? Sayo had not been informed on the details, just that it was a “retreat” he was being made to go to. Two weeks ago, his father had come to him, having seen some mumbo-jumbo nonsense on the internet about a place where young boys with authority problems could be sent for guaranteed improvements. Sayo protested, of course, but the stubborn bastard stood by his word, and there was really nothing for Sayo to do about it. Then he was on the aëroplane; then greeted by the limousine driver when he arrived. Now, here, in a coffin, about to die a slow death as oxygen ran out.

Time went. Darkness ruled all. Thoughts went circles in his head and back again. Maybe he fell asleep at some point, maybe he didn’t: in the absence of external impulses save the touch of the soft padding which he reached out for now and then just to confirm that he was still locked inside and not outdoors under a star-less sky, his sense of time was incoherent.

He was happy he was not claustrophobic.

After what could have been anything from an hour to several – he was beginning to feel somewhat hungry – something heavy scraped against the lid, and it was opened, slowly at first, then faster, slipping off to the side and smashing onto the floor, which - judging by the sound - was of something hard, like stone.

The room was illumined by a distant lamp lit on a desk, on which sat also a computer casting a white light, an open folder somewhere, from which emanated the faint whirr of a fan and the intermittent spinning of a drive. In the opposite direction, there were more lamps, but they were turned off, and on the floor laid more of those damned coffins – maybe this was where they were stored. There was a bookshelf, crowded with profane pornographic magazines that would surely be an affront to any upright Christian household: leather-men, nude hairy bikers; a gaping anus on a cover, semen-stained buttocks. There was no surprise this was a part of the house to which the rest of the family did not have access.

“Ah,” the man said. “You’re admiring the tools of curative medicine. A true homeopathy.”

Sayo thought that the man had misunderstood the quack concept of homeopathy quite badly, nonsense though that it too was. It was all an elaborate scheme to collect dirty magazines and material. “What is this room?”

“My study. _The Palace of Pleasure_ , as I like to think of it. Where bad boys come to be cleansed of their daemons – like an exorcism, except I’m not a bloody catholic. You’re too far gone down the road of sin for any of that to have effect, though, my dear.”

“Are you... going to rape me?” Sayo’s voice trembled uneasily.

“Rape? Rape implies there’s a violation of consent. You dress like a woman, you want to be fucked. Isn’t that so? I know it is. And as I explained earlier, no back-talking... let’s see here...” He sifted through some hidden equipment on a shelf next to the desk, then, not finding whatever it was he sought, moved on to a set of drawers. There he found it. Sayo could not see it.

“You’ve clearly made your choice,” he went on, “looking like _that_. The only remedy I can contemplate being effective is _fucking you straight_.” Whatever Michael was on about, it made no real sense. He had long before gone off the deep end, Sayo could tell, and it was him that would suffer for it. “Women are child-bearers and serfs of the home...” Seemed he was talking to no one at all.

He moved forward now, out of the darkest shadows. Something black glistened hanging from his left hand. His right vanished into his spacious trousers, and were gently stroking his erection that tried to force its way through the front zipper. Then he withdrew his hand from there, brought it up to his nose. He seemed to be trying to detect some odour, but failing to do so, brought his other hand to whatever he held in his hand. It was mostly black with hints of silver that glittered faintly in the light of the lamp.

“This here,” he said, “is an open-mouth gag, as they call them. I like to think of it is the _Pacifier of the Sinful_. You don’t seem the type to try and mouth off, but just in case you get to noisy or try to nibble at something you’re not supposed to...” It came into view from behind the shadow cast by the computer tower. Black leather, some straps attached to it; something that looked like a funnel.

Sayo tried to move a little, but as the coffin was quite high, his attempt to get a leg over the edge was foiled when the man was upon him, putting an arm around his neck, locking him into position once more. Sayo closed his mouth as good as he could. In response, the man grabbed Sayo’s nose with his free hand, holding it closed until there was nothing he could do but open his mouth and—before he could close it again, the thing had been inserted; it tasted odd, like old saliva and dried semen with a hint of urine. _It had been used before._

The straps were tightened around the back of his head, pulling at his hair unpleasantly. In the front there was a round plug fitted into the metal-lined opening of the funnel, which was connected to a small chain. Sayo found he could not close his mouth.

Michael Johnson removed the plug. Then he stuck a finger in, reaching for Sayo’s tongue. His finger tasted like earth. He thought of what his father had said before he sent him here, then: “These people are the salt of the earth... the foundation...” His voice seemed faint and distant in the flash of memory. A sliver of drool escaped from the opening. “Without this order... we’ll have anarchy, disaster, bloodshed...”

He unzipped his trousers and reached down past the elastic lining from above, and took a firm grip of his prick, though Sayo could not yet see it. His knuckles were hard and dry, he could see them rutting past the metal teeth of the zip. “The ungodly heathens and the radical leftist agenda...” he murmured to himself, “there will be blood in the streets on judgement day, and all you... traitors will perish...” He was working himself hard. “Blood in the streets and fire in the skies, atom bombs will rain down...” His hand shifted, and the thing came forwards, out of its nest, the lower portions of the shaft protruding from a jungle of rigid thin hairs. He got closer to Sayo.

Michael Johnson was – surprisingly - not circumcised, and his foreskin hung at the tip of his prick like Santa’s loose sack of Christmas presents. He pulled it back, and the head of the snake was surrounded by white cheese. Sayo could smell him now, sweat and something sweet and simultaneously sour mixed up with a vague hint of urine. He was a quite dirty man; the sweat like a testament to his sorrowful life in service of his local church, the constant need to keep preoccupied with chores just to escape the devastating ennui of excessive contemplation, of doubt, and this abuse he did here in his secret basement must be the only channel through which his warped eccentricities could escape.

He put the cock into the mask, inserting it slowly. Sayo drooled. His tongue was slack in the funnel and was the first thing to touch the approaching head. It was salty urine and something vaguely nostalgic he could not put his finger on, something that came him to recall celebrating a birthday nigh ten years before. The head pressed on, pushing his tongue back; he licked at it. Johnson smiled down at him. “Good boy,” he said. “If you want to dress like a girl, you need to know how to properly be a girl.”

It went further in. Sayo thought he would soon gag, but he did not, despite the not insignificant size of Johnson’s pecker.

“Must have practiced a lot, boy,” he said, “sucked a lot of dicks, eh? Probably started with bananas and fruits, am I right? That’s right...” he didn’t pause to wait for any gurgling answers.

Sayo’s eyes became wet as the fat worm approached his pharynx. Just at that critical spot, Johnson pulled back, and then slowly began to fuck his mouth. Sayo tried to be as accommodating as possible – all things considered – as it he did not want to make his situation worse. Somehow he would have to persevere and come up with some plan to escape, to free from this religious nutter’s warped perversions that some systemic repression had turned into the most distasteful decayed mental pathology.

Johnson fucked away at the very border of his throat for a while, but was soon bored therewith, and took off the mask, throwing it on the cold dark floor somewhere. It hit something tinny and empty.

Nevertheless, it seemed he had not tired of Sayo’s mouth, for he put two fingers in and opened it up, letting Sayo lick those dry coarse fingers marred by years of restless pointless labour. Sayo kept his eyes closed, and the fingers were soon replaced by the big member again. Johnson placed a hand around Sayo’s neck and squeezed roughly while tugging upwards, forcing the mouth to close and gag upon it. Johnson laughed.

“Always gets me hard to hear someone cough and gag,” he said, and the sinister deep-chested laugh had bellowed out into the stale cellar air.

Soon, he came. The bitter sticky stuff dripped down Sayo’s throat, and as it was withdrawn, he had no choice but to cough.

“Suppose,” Johnson said, “that’s it for today. Make sure you swallow that treat. It’s all the food you’ll get today. First, we’ll have to put this thing back.” He held up the plug he had previously taken out of Sayo’s purse. He spat on it. Sayo got on all fours and pointed his buttocks upwards; Johnson pushed the plug in swiftly. It burned slightly. “We’ll be going for a trip tomorrow,” he continued, “to do some charity work.”

Then he rather brutishly forced Sayo to turn and down on his back into the coffin, and closed and locked the cover.

The night fell slowly. Sayo was hungry. His stomach rumbled impatiently. The only thing he felt around him was the soft padding of the coffin. He corrected the plug in his arse until it felt more comfortable. Then he masturbated, ejaculated, and fell asleep. There was nothing better he could do, and though the situation was in many ways disagreeable, he was simultaneously aroused by it. He felt ashamed of the fact.


	3. Chapter 3

He was smiling, and seemed generally to be in a good mood, when he opened the cover the next day. He was dressed up well, sporting a suit and tie; his hair had been brushed back, though no matter what he did, even smiling his face always looked evil. “I told you yesterday,” he said, “that we were going to do some good-Christian charity work today. You don’t have a problem with that, I assume. Who doesn’t long to do good, eh? Not all of us can do so in very pleasant ways, but we can all contribute, one way or another. We all have something to offer to help others.” He made a dramatic pause, as if to emphasise what he was going to say next. “Take of your clothes.”

“W—why?”

“Do it. Don’t ask why. You know what they do to children who talk back in the bible? They stone them at the city gates. Now, will I need to repeat myself?”

“No.”

“No, _what_? You forgot something.” Despite his serious tone, he still seemed merry. At least, as far as he could be.

“No, _sir_.”

“That’s better.”

Sayo undid his clothes, lifted the dress over his head, and took off his stockings, until he was completely naked. Johnson looked with a dedication that was beyond a mere _healthy_ interest in a young man’s soul - though he did not lose control over his urges - his face was granite; unchanging coldness. He looked at and finding what he sought walked up to and thereat picked up some items of what was evidently clothing. “Put these on,” he said, “you’ll wear it during the community service.”

He threw them at Sayo, who picked them up from his feet and carried them with him to the chair facing away from the woodwork table. He sat down, and sorted through the clothes. Most of it was made of rubber; stockings, a bright pink, a corset, same colour with red lacing; arm-warmers as well; the hand-end of the lattermost crowned by red frill. There was also a spiked red collar, with a large steel O-ring at the front.

He began with the stockings. It was a challenging task at first, the cold latex straining against his skin dryly, but eventually he managed to get them up to his thighs. The process of dressing made his cock grow erect, but Johnson did not seem to care. After the pink stockings were in order, he put on the arm-warmers. Johnson threw the white PVC knee-boots he had worn when he arrived towards him, and they landed against the legs of the chair.

He put them on, zipped them up, and then put on the collar. Only the corset with its associated straps remained; however, as it was laced in the back, he was not able to put it on himself. As he had wrapped his midriff in it, Johnson approached from the back; Sayo held still, and Johnson laced it very tightly. Sayo found it somewhat restricted his breathing.

Johnson, having laced the corset, parted Sayo’s arsecheeks and looked to see that the plug (which he had worn to _bed_ in the coffin) was still present. Satisfied with what he saw, he slapped with a hand right across both buttocks, making Sayo wince. “You look ready to be fucked,” he said. Sayo turned and was met by a grin. “To serve... as we all must serve...” He closed a thin chain around the O-ring on the collar, tugged at it as it to test, and confident that it was secured properly, gave a smile that seemed almost friendly. He then handed Sayo a red towel.

“We’re going to go up, and into the garage. Naturally, we can’t have people see you like this in public, it’s indecent. So put this over yourself until we get where we are going.”

Sayo nodded and put the towel over his shoulders from the back; but that wasn’t a good enough reply to Michael Johnson.

“Is that understood, fag-boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, then let us depart. I’ll let you walk first. It’s up the stairs, to the right, through the hall, and you will there see a wooden door with a football poster on it. That’s where we are heading. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

And so he walked.

 

The Johnson family owned two vehicles; both stood within the spacious confines of their well-ordered garage, where the only thing unorganised was the pile of clothes awaiting a wash that were piled in a basket standing on the dryer next to the washing machine. One was a red pick-up truck, the other was a large black SUV. The vehicle they were to travel with was the latter. Johnson unlocked it with the wireless key, but Sayo did not enter, A sports bag lay on the front seat. Johnson moved this into the back seat, and then opened the door for Sayo, motioning with his hand for him to get in and sit down. Doing so, the plug pressed against his bladder uncomfortably.

They drove. Streets wound like spirals, dead-end streets off to the right, then the left; then a wider road, four lanes of black asphalt burning hot under the Arizona sun; a red light, two; automobiles everywhere, SUV’s, lorries, pick-ups; not a single pedestrian in sight, anywhere. A yellow and black school bus, like a prisoner transport lacking the grills for the windows, swished by the other direction. Johnson kept silent during the drive and the radio was off. Past strip malls, roads lined with car parks filled to the brim; past tacky advertisement billboards monstrously high; 105.5 FM GODLY RADIO, SERVING OUR LORD.

They turned off the large road, and soon arrived at a small low-rise building with reddish-brown brick façade and dark-grey tiled roof. Johnson pulled into the back driveway, where in the shadows of the leafy-tree canopy a low loading dock and staff car park was found. He parked beside a rubbish container.

“This is it, boy,” he said. “The Eternal Valley Retirement Community. Get out.”

Sayo got out and slammed the door shut. Johnson did the same, and then walked around to Sayo and took hold of the chain and tugged mildly.

“Follow me,” he said. They walked up the loading dock and in through a wide door; therein was a small kitchen for preparing the cheap sad dinners for the residents, stored as they were, waiting for death and dreaming of the glory of Heaven for which they had always longed but never dared to bring to immediacy – suicide was a dreadful sin, after all, if only to keep the faithful flock on earth when all they wanted was to depart. Not that they’d ever see anything but emptiness at the end of the corridor of light...

Out of the kitchen they entered into a hallway, and Johnson stopped and looked at his wristwatch. Seeming to note that the time was indeed right, he moved again, down the lifeless corridor where the smell was an unpleasant mixture of detergents and stale low-quality re-heated microwave-dinners, until they came to a door before which Johnson paused, raised his free hand and knocked.

A sound of approval and admittance came from within, and Johnson opened the door.

“My son!” cried out the smoke-haunted voice of an aged man whose visible similarity to Michael Johnson was quite remarkable. In many ways he shared the same features, the same stern expression, the same hard edge of their clean-shaven chins, the same eyes... They glistened like toxic silver in the bright glow of the fluorescent lights. The same features, only marked further with age; still, old as he was, he smiled at the sight of his son and whatever his son had promised him. Sayo knew it did not bode well as far as himself was concerned.

The old man, who sat on a sofa facing a television set (currently turned off), turned his eyes to Sayo. “And this – this is the latest one?”

“Indeed.” Johnson turned his head to Sayo. “Drop the towel.”

Sayo did so. It fell to a semi-circle at his feet. He felt shame, having his genitals exposed before a stranger like that; during the trip over, it had shrivelled into a sad, shy state.

“Some boys,” Michael Johnson said, “look better dressed up. This one, he’s really into that. When he was getting dressed for the trip over here, he got hard, I tell you, this is one perverted little bastard. He wore a dress and everything of his own accord, in public! And look at his fine hair, the way it flows--!” Johnson brushed one of Sayo’s bunches in passing, the wisps parting elegantly.

“Orientals are very fine in that regard,” Johnson’s father said (presumably his last name was Johnson too, but Sayo couldn’t help but think of the tall man next to him only as his last name), “as I recall you brought me one before, right? Four or five months ago.”

“He was not as dirty as this one, though,” Johnson replied. “This one brought an anal plug and lube in his purse. The whole kit. _To my house_.” He laughed to himself. Then turned again to Sayo. “Turn around and bend over, show your arse to the man.”

Sayo turned around, facing the door, and bowed down towards the floor. Dust rats lined the wall – cleaning standards were evidently lax.

“That is a fine tush,” Johnson’s old man said, “is that the toy he brought with him?”

“Indeed it is.”

“I like that outfit you gave him. It accentuates his features. Nice and smooth, the skin looks really good, smooth and pale as it is at its best. Get him closer. I want to do a more thorough survey.”

“Do as the man says,” Johnson commanded. Sayo turned back and walked away from the towel on the floor, towards the old man, who now fumbled with a small box of spectacles and retrieving the latter therefrom. Sayo stood up straight before him, like a soldier awaiting inspection by some lieutenant in a barracks. After the man had gotten his spectacles on (which somehow made him look more harmless – it hid the coldness of his eyes and made him look almost sympathetic, if for naught else then for a strange pity of the elderly), he touched like a butcher explores a calf’s flesh before slaughter Sayo’s hips, slipping up, across the rubber of the corset around the navel, and then down to his genitals, which were still not in a perky mood. He was determined to see their size, however, so he tugged at the prick, and though Sayo tried to resist it, it was not long before it stood as a shameless street-walker.

“Very fine skin, well-shaved or limited natural hair-growth, very fair; cock is good-looking, uncircumcised, not notable in size but stands with great fervour... he’s a fine specimen, all right.” Then he looked up into Sayo’s eyes. “So, boy, what is your name?”

“S—”, the answer was interrupted by the man suddenly giving his cock a harsh tug, which made him blush. “Sayo, sir.”

“And what a faggy name! You’ve really outdone yourself this time, son!” The old man’s spectacled gaze moved from Sayo to Johnson. “Take him to the room. I’ll be there briefly.”

Sayo walked back to Johnson, who took hold again of the chain leash, and dragged him along back into the corridor (this time without the towel, and with Sayo’s cock still erect – he seemed not at all worried someone would see them), past the window to a small atria, where a few old men had gathered on a park bench. They went on down the corridor, until they came to a wide sliding door.

AMUSEMENT HALL, letters big and red read across it.


	4. Chapter 4

In the room, which was large, was arranged a large bed, a four-seat sofa, and against the window on the far wall relative to the door through which they entered was set a large table with chairs, probably for playing card-games and similar. On the sofa sat two old men, both with short hair, naked, stroking their dicks, both of which were quite sizable. One of them was very pale, though his hair was still a dark brown; the other was a large black man who kept his hand on a bible next to him.

Mr. Johnson scoffed behind him. “Go play with them,” he commanded. Sayo walked closer to the men, who smelled of poor-taste perfume (or cologne as they liked to call that musky malodorous stuff) and a hint of urine; Johnson followed him, keeping the chain taut.

Sayo fell to his knees between their hairy legs, and put a gloved hand around either dick, taking over their stroking for them; they smiled in response and gritted their (presumably) false teeth. He sucked their urine-tasting cocks, one after the other, then back again, three times, four times; they patted his head.

Then Johnson’s father entered the room, and the atmosphere forthwith became more electric, as if a lamp had suddenly been turned on and filled the shadow-haunted corners of the room with light. He whispered something to Johnson, who took a harsh grip of the buttplug in Sayo’s rear, and twisted it slowly out. There was a final plop, and Sayo twitched; then a finger slipped in, old and coarse, its hairy back tickling, but it was far from adequate to fill the void which the plug’s departure had left.

“This anus is very fine,” Johnson’s father said, tugging at the leash which had been now handed to him. “He’ll be a perfect fuck-doll.” His fingers slipped out, and were promptly replaced by his cock. Like his son’s, it was quite large, even in his old age. Sayo kept sucking on the two men at his fore’s cocks on and off as he was fucked. He felt his sphincter cling to the cock as it was retrieved and then pushed back into him, again, and again, his buttocks slapped against Johnson Senior’s loose spotty thighs.

It seemed he wanted to try a different position, for he said something to the others Sayo did not perceive, and thereafter pulled his manhood out of Sayo’s arse.

Sayo was made to stand up; the leash was handed to the black man with the bible on his side like a child, and Sayo was made to sit down, back against the man, on his cock; the man fucked Sayo while holding his legs up. The pale man and Johnson’s father stood up on the sofa next to him, so that Sayo could keep one hand on either cock and stroke them leisurely and suck on one, then the other.

Then he felt Johnson, the _real_ one, come up and brush his erection against his hole, which was already occupied.

“You’ll be double-stuffed,” he said, gritting his teeth, “one cock is just not enough for you, is it? The way you suck those, it’s clear to me that you want more.” His appendage pushed on, and when the other cock was quite clear of his hole and began its journey in again, Johnson’s member joined up with it, and together they slipped in.

Sayo cried out with mixed ecstasy and pain after spitting the cock in his mouth out, but Johnson shewed no hesitation; now those two pricks probed his arse in perfect union, two working as one; Sayo resumed his sucking.

“He really is good at this,” Johnson’s father said. “I think... I’m going to come! When I pull out and come in your mouth, I want you to keep it inside your mouth, don’t swallow it, and don’t spit it out, okay? Then everyone else will come in your mouth, too, and then you can swallow it, is that understood?”

Sayo nodded.

Johnson’s father pulled out and wanked his cock frantically until from the head shot jets of semen; Sayo kept his mouth open and tried to capture it, but some came on his nose and chin instead. Some semen still drivelled from the slit, and Sayo reached his head up and sucked it clean, keeping the scum in his mouth; then the pale man did the same, without missing; Sayo felt the shot squirt into his mouth, against the back of his tongue.

Then Johnson pulled his cock out and climbed up on the sofa (the pale man and Johnson’s father had stepped down in the intervening time) and stuffed his cock into Sayo’s mouth and came while making lewd noises unbefitting of a proper father figure of the sort he wished he was. Sayo sucked the slackening member while he kept having his arse fucked, until the black man too seemed to approach spending, at which time Sayo slipped down on the floor.

He embraced the arse-tasting wet thing in his mouth just in time to receive the nectar from it; it mixed with all the others and filled his mouth completely. Sitting on his knees on the floor he opened his mouth for the audience to see, and pleased as they were they all lit up in smiles, patted his head, and he was allowed to swallow the bitter batter.

The old men left, laughing amongst one another, and the door closed behind them. Michael Johnson Junior turned towards Sayo.

”You did that well, boy,” he said, ”so it is time we put you to work.”

Sayo gave him a quizzical look.

“Turning tricks,” he said, his stern face convulsing into a deranged smile. “Make some money. Contribute to your family’s well-being. It’s the only sort of work someone like you can perform, anyhow, isn’t it? This was charity work. Now it’s time for what pays the bills. Do you understand?”

Sayo nodded. He supposed he did, anyhow. When they left, Johnson did not bother covering Sayo up with the towel. It seemed it was only on his own residential street and community where he was afraid of being seen in this circumstance. They went back to the car, and drove off. Sayo’s arse was a bit sore. He wondered where they were going. America; wide roads as straight as possible, drawn by unfaltering rulers; advertisement signs, a life lived in the bubbles of automobiles.

The neighbourhood got visibly poorer. Houses smaller, streets dirtier, less maintained. More people were visible on the sidewalks – pedestrians as an economic class. They turned in on a car park next to a dingy motel, a two-storey affair with deck access. Johnson opened the door for Sayo.

“I rent a room here,” he said, “and then I let whoever have their way with the boys I take here. It’s quite lucrative. It’s your turn today.”

Sayo said nothing, but followed closely Michael Johnson up the flight of stairs, eventually reaching a room which Johnson unlocked, and held the door open. “Get in”, he said. A chain was fastened to the top of the bed; Johnson attached this to the ring on the front of Sayo’s red spiked collar.

“What if they have some diseases?” Sayo asked.

He shouldn’t have. Johnson turned immediately irate. “So fucking what?” he shouted, “do I look like I care about your health? Guess what – I don’t. You’ll be lucky if you’re not riddled with diseases when I’m done with you.”

Johnson opened a sport-bag, pulled out a polaroid camera. “Pose,” he demanded. Sayo tried to be erotic and sensual, but was probably quite far therefrom – but Johnson seemed happy enough and snapped four pictures. One of his face, one of him standing up on the edge of the bed, and two lying, one of his front and one focused on his voluptuous arse. This done, the pictures were fastened to a piece of paper as a spread-sheet of what was on offer.

“You’ll do whatever you have to please your clients, such is your lot in life, you little scum-receptacle,” Johnson said and smirked ominously before he left the room and the door shut behind him with a harsh dismissive bang.

Sayo lay on the bed. In spite of, or perhaps because of the situation, he had an erection which he casually frigged while he lay there, trying not to think of the uncertain future. He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, as there was no clock he could see. There came a knock on the door, and a man entered.

He was fat and had an ugly beard. He wore a flannel shirt and worn jeans, which he proceeded to pull down to reveal, nestled in a mess of tangled hairs, his prick, which was scarcely impressive.

“You’re a real cute little boy,” he said in a hazy alcohol-ravaged timbre, “we’re going to have fun.” He smiled and looked exceedingly creepy, and he stopped at the end of the bed. Sayo crawled over the bed on all fours to the man, and perked up his little dick with his hand. But a whore does not judge the clients member, for she exists only for his pleasure and release, an object, a tool – oh! humiliation, degradation all mixed up with perverse pleasure and arousal – like machinery in a factory or the printing equipment in an office. It’s foreskin was disappointingly short, the man having evidently been mutilated by doctors in the service of Mammon when young, perhaps even new-born, but still – Sayo leaned his head in and took it in his mouth. As expected it tasted of piss, and the smell from the man’s arse was quite pronounced. He could not have showered for a while.

His cock stiffened within the chamber of Sayo’s mouth, and Sayo began to suck it vampyrically.

“Ah, good, yes, that’s a good little faggot sissy,” the man said, uttering these profane tones somehow without bursting into cacophonic laughter; this was a man who couldn’t stop talking during sex, like some casual Internet-user on a pornographic website. “Faggot sissies crave cock, don’t they? Crave it in the arse... turn around... show me your butt.”

Sayo spat out his saliva-drenched member and turned around as ordered.

“Got a real nice arse-cunt, don’t you, you little fuck-hole? I’ll gladly put this thing to some real use. Tell me how you want it!”

Sayo tried his best to please the customer. “I... I want it in my arse-cunt, master! Put it in me before I lose my mind!”

“Oh, you little filthy slut-boy! Very well, I shall quench your thirst!” His prick, still wet with Sayo’s saliva, pressed in between the buttocks and against the sphincter. The saliva made it feel cold. The skin on Sayo’s back knotted, like goose bumps. The miniscule cock slipped inside, and Sayo felt the bristly hairs hit his bare buttocks.

“Tight! Really tight and nice!”

Sayo guessed the previous fuck-sessions that day had not loosened him up as bad as he had expected.

The man began to fuck.

When he came, he shouted something incoherent about faggot sissies filled with seed.

He pulled out, and Sayo felt warm spendings leak from his hole down along the perineum and fraenum. It tickled pleasantly.

The man walked up to Sayo’s side, and made Sayo suck his own anal traces and the semen off the cock. He made Sayo swallow. Sayo didn’t mind that – it was probably no more risky than the arse-fucking, anyway, unless he had some sore in his mouth he didn’t know about.

“That was good, clean fun,” the man said with a happy, creepy smile across his greasy bearded face framed by that hideous brown short-cut coiffure as he pulled his jeans trousers back up and secured them with a belt. His belly hung like a disaster zone over the waistband, a dam ready to burst down over a city at the slightest disturbance...

He left the room.


End file.
